


nowhere fast

by sexysadie



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960-ish, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pre-Beatles, Regret, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:48:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexysadie/pseuds/sexysadie
Summary: Paul speaks again and there’s something dangerous in his voice. "Nothing. I'm going home. Don't call me, John."





	

**Author's Note:**

> i know what you're thinking: connie, cut the shit n write more stuff that actually makes sense!! bear with me while i work out the knots in my motivation guys sorry  
> i continue my love story with smiths songs for the title. check out the one in question   
> enjoy !!

The sun hasn’t risen yet and dawn’s spidery hands are creeping under your curtains, illuminating the bare edges of the room into somewhere soft-white and unfamiliar. If you were paying attention you’d be cold. In the bathroom the tap drips like a pendulum keeping time – to what, you don’t know.

You watch the slim, still figure of Paul in the window, back long and bare and shoulders taut as he smokes. You wonder how he does it, just stands there like that’s what he’s supposed to do.

“I’m…” The words die in your throat, trickle down your chin pathetically. You might as well be drooling. “I didn’t...”

“I know,” Paul says. He’s still facing the window.

It’s the first time he’s spoken this morning. As you stuttered and forced out words, sat on the bed in your underwear and talked yourself round and round in circles with apology and anger warring in the cavity of your chest, he’d looked at you with brown eyes depthless in the darkness, face unreadable. It makes you want to plead forgiveness, get on your knees and grovel at his feet. It makes you want to loosen his front teeth.

“I know,” Paul repeats. A thread of smoke rises from his cigarette, collects in the far corner of the room, and you know you’ll be smelling it for hours. You say nothing.

“It wasn’t-”

“I _know_.”

Jerkily he turns, stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the chest of drawers angrily like it’s done him a personal disservice. Still he doesn’t face you. _Won’t_ face you. “Will you stop-”

“Stop what?”

Silence, and you feel your heart like a castanet in your chest, the rapid patter of it like a frightened animal. You want to, you _need_ to know what he wants you to stop. It’s the only thing you’re good at – pushing and pushing until it gets too much, until all your jokes and fucking around collapse in on you and you’ve got to dig yourself out of it. The hard set of Paul’s shoulders tell you he won’t be doing any digging himself.

“Stop what?” The words come out challenging. “Tell me.”

Paul speaks again and there’s something dangerous in his voice. You’ve never heard it before, not from sweet, malleable Paul, this cold, tight, razor-blade quiet, and an uncertain chill two-steps down your back.

“Nothing. I’m going home. Don't call me, John.”

You don’t get out of bed as he gathers his clothes. The just-crowning sun fairly glows on his skin, backlights him into this tall and untouchable figure with two, three bruises blooming across his collarbones, spreading ink. He’s walking funny. Possessiveness shivers unwelcomingly in the back of your throat, the slick, sly whisper, _I’ve been there,_ and a wave of some painfully blunt feeling surges in your gut. It’s nameless; a perverted sort of anticipation, the sensation of experiencing something new and forbidden, curdling with a deep-seated regret that’s already beginning to consume and corrode.

The door shuts. The sky burns.


End file.
